


Apocalypse Now

by wingstocarryon (hollyrowan)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean's Point of View, Destiel - Freeform, First Kiss, Just one way it could happen, M/M, Motels, Post-Hunt, Set sometime mid season five, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 06:14:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6317926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyrowan/pseuds/wingstocarryon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are explosions on TV and there's violence in Dean's head.</p><p> </p><p>A post-hunt scene, set vaguely mid-season five. Destiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Apocalypse Now

_Apocalypse Now_ is on the motel TV and Dean’s bleeding here on the sofa. A helicopter explodes in a ball of fire and Dean wants to punch someone’s lights out.

He doesn’t even know why.

There’s a singing in his head and it’s not all the concussion. It’s blood, singing in his ears. 

Sometimes it does this, the hunt. Sometimes it riles you up with no place to go. He’s got warm beer, a bloody hole in his shoulder, and one of Sam’s uglier shirts to stop up the blood. And he’s here while Sam’s on body duty. The case is done.

Next door someone’s having an orgasm, more luck to them. Dean saved someone’s life and lost someone else’s tonight and the blood is still singing in his ears.

Surely there’s more to life than this. 

The beer tastes stale going down, like it’s been steeped in car sunlight all day, flat and warm, no kick. He chases the last drop with his tongue, lets the bottle fall to the floor. The blood’s still pumping in his ears, in his shoulder. He lifts the wadded up shirt to check the wound, then presses it again. Still bleeding.

He cracks another warm beer and leans back, closes his eyes to drink, hearing only the gunfire on TV, distant screaming of dying men. He opens his eyes again.

Castiel is standing over him.

He’s a dark shape against the light, a looming darkness in front of a grimy lamp. Dean blinks up at him stupidly. Then Cas leans forward slightly and Dean can see the blood splattered on his face, the rivulets of dark red in his hair, matted at the hairline. 

Suddenly Dean’s fucking furious.

“What the hell were you thinking back there?” he says.

Castiel frowns. “Dean, are you alright?”

But Dean’s having fucking none of that. He heaves himself up, sways, grabs Cas’s lapel, pushing him back.

“Don’t you fucking do that again. Don’t you fucking throw yourself in the line of fire. Your mojo’s almost gone. You can’t take another fucking bullet.” 

Castiel stares straight back. Looking into an angel’s eyes is like looking into a storm, huge and raging, Dean insignificant in comparison. Castiel is daubed with blood that he hasn’t even noticed from the bullet he took without even thinking. His hair is matted with blood, and tonight Dean saw him kill three angels without looking away.  _Glass shatters when he speaks._ Castiel’s fucking language is violence. 

No, Dean thinks. No. Cas’s just a puny little nerd. Cas. He’s just an asswipe, douchbag puny baby nerd. He’s never even handled a gun. He’s never taken one of John Winchester’s lessons. He’s so much smaller than human. 

The blood is singing in Dean’s ears as he pushes Cas up against the wall and kisses him. 

For a moment all he can taste, all he can feel is the heat of Cas’s mouth and the rasp of stubble against his chin and the loud thundering pounding of blood in his ears. Then he realizes that Castiel’s not stopping him. Castiel’s mouth is open and his tongue is pressed against Dean’s.

Dean stops and pulls back. Cas closes his mouth obligingly. 

“Are you alright?” Cas says.

“I was going to punch you,” Dean explains, as though that explains anything.

He watches Cas consider this.

“You could,” Cas says. “Though it might be painful,” he counters. “You  _are_ wounded.”

“Right,” says Dean. “That’s true.”

He doesn’t remember what he’s doing. He doesn’t remember what drove him to this, what his purpose here was. He’s still holding Cas’s lapel.

He can feel the heat from Cas’s body, standing this close. Do angels run at a higher temperature? He doesn’t know.

“Why did you do that?” says Cas. His head is slightly tilted in that inquisitive angel look, but for the first time, Dean sees something else in his expression. A desperate need to know, fear mixed with something like innocence. His gaze locks on Dean, intent and waiting for an answer.

Dean swallows. He feels a responsibility, suddenly, that’s more serious than taking Cas to a brothel and throwing him at some hooker. 

“I guess I wanted to,” he says honestly. His voice is hoarse. Fucking Cas. He feels like he’s drowning in the eyes of the storm. He looks down at the floor.

He feels Cas’s hand on his shoulder. Then on his chin, dragging his head back up. 

Cas’s face is alight, intent, and Dean doesn’t understand. He’s got Dean’s collar in his fists, pulls Dean bodily towards him. Then Cas closes his eyes and Dean can see the tiny blue veins in his eyelids, vulnerable as Cas leans in. 

“Show me again.”


End file.
